


Pick-Me-Up Coffee

by QueenAng



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Coffee, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenAng/pseuds/QueenAng
Summary: Starscream couldn't remember being this tired in his life.
Relationships: Starscream/Wheeljack (Transformers)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 71





	Pick-Me-Up Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Let's pretend Cybertron has coffee because tbh Starscream needs it

Starscream couldn’t remember ever being this tired in his life. Like a fool, he thought the war ending meant he might actually be able to get some decent recharge again. But now Windblade and her cohort haunted his waking hours and his recharge fluxes prevented his escape from Megatron. Rattrap slinked through the shadows of his office and his chair had vanished beyond an ever-growing mountain of data-pads.

He laid down to recharge expecting nothing more than to wake up even tired. His nightly encounters with the memory of Megatron left him wearier than if he forewent rest at all.

Now, Starscream idly swiped a claw across the gold metal of his crown, feeling his tank churn. The metal didn’t scratch, so unlike his own plating, but the sound did slightly drown out the beeping of his alarm clock. As if he needed it. As if he had actually fallen into recharge for longer than a few cycles. Starscream couldn’t remember the last time he slept through the night.

He slunk to his office while the sky outside the vast windows (which Starscream had insisted upon) was still purple and dark. A few mechs traversed the halls at this hour; none of them skirted too close to Starscream. Even on his good days, he was a force to be reckoned with. If anyone noticed him giving a wider girth to the other entrances he passed, they didn’t comment.

Once he reached the safe solitude of his office, he closed and locked the door, inputting a new passcode into the door. The last thing he felt like dealing with right now was Rattrap. Only Windblade and Wheeljack could override it. He all but collapsed into his office chair and randomly selected a data-pad from the right-hand stack.

The citizens of New Vos, he read, are hereby submitting a formal report to ask for assistance with the repairs to the—

— _a servo constricting around his throat cables, his vision fritzing_ —

Starscream cycled his optics and started the sentence again. Assistance with the—

— _a medic’s voice speaking in low tones, Megatron saying,_ “Leave him be.”

The data-pad in his servos let out a beep, warning about excess pressure on the screen. A web-like crack streamed outward from where Starscream’s claw dug in. He shut his optics off, only to see—

— _Megatron, over him, his own wrists pinned too tightly behind him, one wing no longer receiving sensory data, his_ —

The sound of the data-pad hitting the far wall broke him from the memory flux.

Starscream straightened, his weapons systems flaring to life. Most bots had elected to get rid of theirs once the war had officially ended; Starscream had no such delusions. Megatron was far, far from gone. If they were all too blind to see it, then—

“See what?”

Starscream would never admit he jumped. His plating reflexively clamped down tight over his protoform. He directed an arm cannon at the source of the voice, already lining up a missile, already formulating an escape plan for after. _If_ , his processor supplied helpfully. _If_ there was an _after_.

Wheeljack didn’t move. The data-pad in his servos provided a highly inadequate shield for his chest. His optics cycled slowly, focusing first on Starscream’s face, then on the arm cannon pointed directly toward his spark chamber. Starscream couldn’t read him, couldn’t begin to wonder what expression was playing out beneath that blasted face mask. His own frame was frozen, joints locked in place, braced for an attack.

Finally, after a nanoklik that felt like a joor passed, Wheeljack’s optics met Starscream’s. “You know,” he said, “when I want paperwork to go missing, I’ve found that dumping it in the garbage chute is sufficient. Never needed an arm cannon to get rid of it.”

Starscream felt as though the power to his arm had suddenly gone out, as if the circuits supplying it had suddenly been cut off by a vibro-blade. It dropped to his side, his arm cannon powering down to a low hum, and then silence.

Starscream broke it first. “I— I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure what came over me. I was—” He made an attempt at a flippant gesture toward his desk, toward the towers of data-pads.

Wheeljack set his own data-pad down on the edge of Starscream’s desk, not on one of the piles. “Can’t say I haven’t had some paperwork that made me want to blast a coworker,” he said lightly.

He felt weak. Weary. Like he was wearing Metroplex’s armor rather than his own. His shoulders sagged, his weapons systems falling offline again.

Wheeljack took a step closer, and Starscream took an involuntary one back, moving before he even processed what had happened. Wheeljack stopped, didn’t try to move any closer to him. He held up a servo, empty, palm out, and said, “You seem a bit on edge. How ‘bout we take a break and head out for some energon.”

Starscream checked his chronometer. “Shifts have just started,” he said.

Wheeljack’s helm tilted. “Clearly not for you.”

Starscream stiffened. “Well, I’m _sorry_ that no one else around here can solve a single Primus-damned problem on their own!” He crossed his arms over his chassis. “I’m supposed to be here to lead Cybertron, not act as a mediator in her city-state’s petty squabbles.”

Helm finials flashed briefly. “Pretty sure that’s what leaders are supposed to do.”

“ _They’re_ supposed to be leaders too!”

Wheeljack’s finials went dark. “Hey, Star, I’m just messin’ with you. I know they can be difficult. Trust me.”

Imagining Wheeljack undergoing the same restless nights and stressful days had the neutron star in Starscream’s fuel tank growing heavier.

Something seemed to flip in Wheeljack’s personality matrix, because the next moment, his finials were flashing blue again, lighting up the room. “But hey, it is what it is, right? Nothing a good cube of energon can’t fix on a bad day.”

But it wasn’t a bad day. It was a bad day and a bad night followed by another bad day and another bad night and it _never_ seemed to end.

“You should go,” Starscream said, sitting back down. “You… you should go.”

“I don’t—”

“Wheeljack.”

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Wheeljack said, “All right. I’ll go.” He slipped out the door without another word.

Starscream wasn’t sure how long he sat at his desk, his vents stuttering, optics dark. He shut his chronometer off after Wheeljack left; he didn’t need a reminder of how much time he spent alone, wallowing. Oh, how Megatron would gloat to see him now… alone, running on fumes. Still haunted, still restless. Had anything really changed at all?

He stood up, quickly crossing over to the door. He needed some fresh air. He needed to fly – somewhere, anywhere else. He didn’t know where, but he couldn’t stay here, or he—

His pede almost knocked over a cube of energon. A mini-data-pad sat atop it, the screen turned off. Slowly, Starscream bent down and hefted up the cube, inspecting it. It wasn’t regular energon, nor was it high grade. There were silver streaks mixed in with the green. Slivers of copper covered the top.

He retreated back into his office, allowing the door to fall shut behind him. He slid the energon onto his desk. Curiously – suspiciously – he onlined the data-pad.

_Star,_

_Sorry about startling you earlier. Hope your day got better._

_If it didn’t, here’s some energon from the café down the road. Best thing I’ve ever had! You’ve gotta try it. For me. For science._

_Love you,_

_\- WJ_

Starscream focused solely on those last few glyphs. _Love you_. A claw-tip ran over the data-pad’s fragile screen, too lightly to scratch it, almost gentle. _Love you_. He cycled his optics. Looked back down to the bottom of the data-pad. _Love you_. Reset his optics. Checked again. _Love you_ , it said. _Love you_.

He didn’t notice when the door opened, and he couldn’t get his helm to lift up from the data-pad, even when he heard Wheeljack start to speak.

“I saw the cube was gone, so I figured you were up again. What did you think? I know it’s practically battery acid, but I’ve tried those energon gels you like and—” Wheeljack stopped as Starscream rapidly swiped at his optics. He was far too tired for this. “Oh. Was it that bad? I know they make it a little acidic – well, a lot, really – but I thought you liked stuff that—”

Starscream didn’t have a lot of experience with hugs, but he did his best. He pulled Wheeljack in close, held him like he was the last solid thing in the universe. His frame was warm for a grounder. The pink glow of his finials cast light over Starscream’s faceplates. He just shut off his optics in response.

“Star?” Wheeljack’s voice was quiet.

“Thank you,” he said.

Slowly, Wheeljack’s arms came to wrap around him as well. He gave gentle hugs, as though he was afraid of breaking him. He was careful to avoid touching his wings. “You seemed like you needed to hear it.”

After a moment, Wheeljack added, “’Sides, at this point, I’m always looking for an excuse to go down there. I’m always telling the barista about you, so you gotta actually go next time and not leave me looking like a lovesick fool, and— Starscream? Star?”

Starscream slipped into recharge somewhere around “this point”. Wheeljack’s frame was surprisingly comfortable.


End file.
